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 | Blogs > CB_2 > I admit, I like to be spanked > The Farmer - fiction |
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Last Read: |
Well, this is fiction in the sense that I've changed his name. The rest is 100% true. I went to the post office this morning, to buy a stamp. Came home feeling like I’ve been hit with a brick. I bumped into Jean-Pierre, my neighbour from the farm opposite. I may have forgotten to mention him before now. There’s a very good reason for this: he is the most gorgeous creature on God’s earth, and it’s dangerous to think about him too hard. Hours can just slip away. I’ve known him for the best part of 15 years (since he was 19 or 20, so that makes him about 35 now), and have always had the tiniest crush on him. We’ve never interacted much, because we keep very different hours, but I’ve always been aware that doing so would not have been good for my marriage. He has the most amazing smile I’ve ever encountered; it is utterly irresistible. A smile and wave when he passes by on his tractor has always done it for me. Yes, he’s a farmer. And he is fit. I mean, athletically as well as aesthetically. I haven’t seen him up so close for years, but he’s actually becoming more gorgeous as he gets older. Maybe I’m just getting more desperate. Well, I am, but empirically speaking he is also getting more gorgeous. Button-fly jeans (don’t think too hard about them; remember to breathe; fainting is so not a good look) and a black t-shirt. Biceps and washboard stomach. A cliché, but so true. I may have groaned. I can hardly breathe. Let me just replay the moment where he smiled (ohmigod, immediate flood alert somewhere in the south), breathily said my name and moved in for the requisite four kisses. What a civilised country – you meet a guy who looks like Adonis, and you get not one but four kisses from him without hesitation. And four when you part, of course. There is a God after all. I’ve always hated my first name. It sounds ugly and squat. At least, it does in English. Spoken by a Frenchman, though, I immediately notice how sexy it sounds. It’s the shifting of the accent from the first to the second syllable, and the change in the “r” from a front of mouth to a throaty sound. Mmmmm, could really get to like that. Anyway, I’m struggling hard to see straight, let alone take in what he’s saying. Concussion like this should really mean a trip to A&E. He’s coming to see me for coffee in a couple of days. He’ll take the kids out on the tractor afterwards. He’s coming to see me in a couple of days. Me, not us. Me. And none of the usual “I’m so sorry, and how are you coping?” stuff. Just being nice and friendly, and smiling at me (more floodwater). He doesn’t realise how much I appreciate being spoken to as a normal person, rather than being patronised about how I’m assumed to be feeling. I’d like to think of him as a friend, but my immediate reaction is far more basic than that. I just want to push him down on the grass and shag him senseless, actually. Must stop thinking about button-fly jeans. Wonder if he is married, or has a girlfriend? He must do, surely. How could he not? I’ll have to make discreet enquiries. Blogito ergo sum. |
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9/2/2006 1:45 pm |
My, my, you do have it bad.....
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9/3/2006 2:43 am |
Doesn't matter if he's got a girlfriend shag him senseless anyway 
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9/4/2006 12:52 pm |
Sacre bleu! Watch out! CB2 eeez about! Zut alors!  chaud xx
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2/4/2007 9:03 am |
I love these anticipation stories. Hot hot hot.
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That's certainly a plan.... wish you'd advised me of it before I got back to the UK, Kev!
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